


the boys i mean are not refined

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Angst, Brutality, Protectiveness, Retribution, Sexual Abuse, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 03:32:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s one of the hardest things she’ll ever do. She can’t condone something like this. It will undermine too much of her authority with the SGC, let alone the rest of the expedition when they find out. If they find out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the boys i mean are not refined

**Author's Note:**

> The italicized text taken from a real encounter Ismenetruth on LJ went through. Those are not my words. I used them specifically upon her request, as a means to make her feel better.
> 
> Please heed the warning. As much as this sort of fantasy retribution is satisfying (which was the point of writing it) what prompts it is sadly all too real. Also, if I'm missing appropriate tags, please let me know. I wasn't sure how to categorize this one.

It’s always easy to fall back on stereotypes. Elizabeth learned that lesson long before she discovered her love of diplomacy, and it disturbs her now to realize she’s allowed herself to be so swayed. 

The stereotype is that Rodney McKay is unobservant at best, down right oblivious at worst.

It’s completely unfounded.

Rodney notices everything, instinctively slotting it into four distinct categories: interesting; uninteresting; _moronically_ uninteresting, and; why are you wasting _brain cells_ obviously put to better effort by keeping your mouth shut and out of my way?

What he calls uninteresting, without the moronic or the ‘you are here simply to annoy me into an aneurysm, aren’t you’ appendages, Elizabeth calls vital information. It’s a subject of contention between them because Elizabeth lives on nuances, on the tiniest gestures of a person’s hands, the intonations of their voice. Rodney doesn’t care about those things, dismissing it as if those minute, important details never even existed.

“It’s been going on for at least three weeks,” Rodney says, voice flat and casual, like this is nothing at all. It’s not nothing: his hands are completely still and his mouth is twisted into its deepest frown. “Maybe more like four.”

Anger is a roaring, frothing wave that rushes over her, drenching her in heat that makes every inch of her epidermis tingle and burn, her stomach dropping abruptly, left blind and dumb with the force of it. Her pulse bangs heavily under her skin, hands shaking with adrenaline she doesn’t know how to control and doesn’t want to.

Elizabeth rarely allows herself to be truly angry. She can get caught up in the heat of the moment with the best of them, but too often she’s seen how destructive such rages can be. She’s trained hard to prevent such responses in herself.

Not now. Now she wants the furious, driving beat of it: some things are worth that primal fury.

“I didn’t say anything at first,” he continues and her head snaps up, eyes wide enough to be painfully dry. _What?_ “No, no, not for _that_ ,” Rodney continues, finally frustrated enough to shift in his chair, bringing one leg to cross over the other. His foot twitches. “Of course I wouldn’t—I had to see what she’d do.”

That answer makes sense and following the path of it gives Elizabeth a moment to calm herself. Procedure is never as all-encompassing as she’d like, but there are certain things that have to be done first. Establishing a history, a level of severity. If it’s truly what observation indicates, and not some—some twisted game enjoyed by both sides.

“And what did she do?”

“You honestly expected something other than ‘nothing’? She’s barely a hundred pounds with little stick arms and legs, what exactly did you expect her to do? There’s always the, hm, more creative approach to retribution, and certainly she’s smart enough to come up with some pretty scary things, but that’s not something she could bring herself to do, and you know it. She’s too brow-beaten. Especially by me.” The frown is back, etching shadowed crevasses into Rodney’s skin. He’s not pleased with himself and his potential ‘encouragement’.

Elizabeth shakes her head but doesn’t say anything. Rodney’s moments of self-reflection and self-disgust are rare, but their roots go down deep. If he truly feels like he’s intimidated her into reflexive submission, then he won’t listen to any of Elizabeth’s counter-arguments.

No matter how ridiculous the implication actually is. Rodney is an overbearing, rude, obnoxious braggart, yes, but when he yells, he expects you to yell right back. His dividing line is always—and _only_ —what he views as stupidity. Cultural trappings bore him. Meekness frustrates him, and he never truly understands why people don’t stand up for themselves. After all, _he_ does.

“You have a time line?”

“Documented, of course.” He’s nothing if not thorough. A stack of papers with neat, damning lines of black on white is passed across her desk. A small, silver device rests on top. “Play it. It’s already cued up.”

If her hands shake, neither of them say anything.

 _"Hey, pretty girl."_ Low, leering and disgustingly cock-sure, the voice fills the room. Elizabeth makes a mental note to have the walls washed when this is over.

The tumbling sound of feet, double and maybe triple-echoing, indicates there’s at least two people, probably more, and one of them is walking abruptly faster. 

_"Hey, pretty girl, you like black dick?"_ the same voice asks. _"You wanna suck mine?"_

 _"Aw, come on, man,"_ another voice says—two on one, then. Elizabeth swallows, her stomach quivering because Rodney’s description of Akimi Ito is accurate: she might be a hundred pounds, wet, and she’s easily physically intimidated, particularly by men. _“Little thing like her couldn't take black cock. I bet she'd beg for mine, though.”_

There’s a soft, breathless gasp as nervous feet start running. Rodney’s hand appears in her field of vision, turning off the tape. “There’s more. I have video footage, as well.”

Elizabeth swallows, grateful that she doesn’t have to watch. She will later, of course. It’s her responsibility—but not now, when the shock of this is so fresh, her emotions so raw.

There’s nothing surprising about this, unfortunately. Elizabeth believes in and fights for her ideals, but she lives in the practical world. Whenever there are men and women who work together there will always be some sort of harassment, whether the root cause is gender issues, or the mostly-playful competition between military and science, or something else again—it doesn’t matter. The SGC is better than most given their proximity to things a lot less familiar than a woman in mens’ midst, but ‘better’ is a relative term.

It happens. It just doesn’t usually go this far.

“This is mostly just a courtesy, Elizabeth,” Rodney says, abruptly brisk. It’s his way of being comforting and weirdly, she appreciates that. There’s no question of where his sympathies lie. “You don’t have to do a thing. We just wanted to let you know that it was happening, in case it goes farther up the chain of command. We’re handling it.”

“We?”

Rodney’s smile is tight and so curdled with anger that it’s painful to look at. “I do not tolerate that kind of behavior towards my scientists. Ever.”

He stalks out, coldly precise with each step and Elizabeth allows herself to breathe again. If Rodney says it’s being handled—and it’s no contest as to who the other part of ‘we’ is—then it will be handled: efficiently, brutally, and crushingly effective. Rodney doesn’t leave much to chance, and never when he’s this angry.

All that’s left for her are potential bureaucratic repercussions. It’s a strangely protected position. Domestic issues such as this—and the phrasing turns her stomach—are her purview despite the military status of Ito’s harassers. She’s the Governor of Atlantis, for lack of a better term, and it should be her who metes out punishment.

In a way, it’s almost chauvinistic, that Rodney and his ‘we’ are keeping this from her.

Elizabeth snorts at herself, rubbing the back of her neck as she leans heavily in her chair. Yes, if looked at in the right way, it could be chauvinistic. A little of it probably is, a hint of the chivalry that both Rodney and his ‘we’ adhere to without even thinking about it. This is a problem regarding men, and the men will deal with it.

But at heart, it’s not chauvinistic at all. It’s absolute, instinctive fury from men who are rare enough not to have overt issues with women in positions of power, and will not tolerate such behavior around them. To apply a chauvinistic label is insulting to them, and to her.

Whatever issues Elizabeth has with Rodney and his ‘we’—which are legion, she thinks wryly—she’s never once believed that this could be one of them. It’s reassuring to discover she’s right, that the trust she’s placed in them is entirely deserved.

Unusual, but then, Elizabeth’s come to expect unusual behavior from those two. And be proud of it.

* * *

It’s pure chance that she happens to catch wind of it. Atlantis is normally a hotbed of rumor and speculation, a predictable side effect from living so isolated, and that Rodney’s visit is the first she’s heard about it, well... That’s surprising.

It also suggests that maybe the ‘we’ is more than just Rodney and John.

She’s careful about it, relying on Rodney’s so oft-dismissed skills as a diplomat to test the currents and figure out who has information that might be useful to her. It’s two frustratingly obtuse days of nothing before she happens to stumble on a conversation between Ronon and Teyla of all things.

“I should be there,” Ronon says, the slow rumble of thunder deeper and more menacing than usual.

“ _We_ should, if such things were acceptable. They are not, Ronon.” Teyla’s back is to the hallway, stiff and tight with frustration. She doesn’t expect to be eavesdropped upon, tucked away in the little balcony between the cafeteria and the control tower. It’s a semi-private spot often used for hushed, frantic conversations, but Elizabeth’s discovered the perfect place to stand and hear almost every word.

She feels guilty, but ignores it. Pragmatism is a useful skill, particularly when Teyla and Ronon, both innately aware of their surroundings and potential listeners, don’t notice her at all.

“Don’t see why not. Could hold their—”

Teyla makes a short, sharp noise. “If we interfere now it will give them grounds to appeal later. This _must_ be left in their hands alone.”

Ronon kicks at the balcony, the musical clang strangely disquieting. “Still want to be there.”

“As do I.”

Elizabeth stays a few more seconds, hoping they’ll give her some indication of where she should look. They say nothing, though, staring out at white-streaked blue skies, lost in their own private thoughts.

Damn. Ronon’s version of fidgety frustration means it’s happening _now_ , or at least within a short time frame, and Elizabeth wants to be there. She’s honestly not sure if it’s because she needs the reassurance that yes, everything is going to be okay, or if it’s something more primal, more vindictive, that exalting feeling of actually proving a point while her body races with a kind of smug satisfaction she so rarely indulges in—

It doesn’t matter. Either way, she needs to see at least _some_ of it.

Elizabeth stands in the middle of the hallway, thinking as fast as she can. With two days to go over Rodney’s meticulously, pityingly horrific documentation and analyze his courtesy-call a little more closely, Elizabeth’s well aware that Rodney’s taken quite a few steps to prevent this over the last three weeks. He started with making sure Ito would never be off alone somewhere, siccing her on projects with the most physically active of his scientists and brushing off any complaints with brusque dismissiveness. When that didn’t work, Elizabeth has no doubt that he started the psychological warfare that’s become so terrifying to the military contingent—she can read between the lines quite well, and better, she knows Rodney. 

He’ll turn to science, first, attacking the creature comforts even marines take for granted at ‘home’.

That had gone on for, she suspects, a week before Ito had come into the lab trying desperately not to cry, cradling her right arm. Elizabeth doesn’t have to close her eyes to see the infirmary picture, labeled a ‘lab accident’ despite the bruises that made an almost perfect impression of a hand, circling Ito’s slender upper arm. 

It’s burned into her retinas.

Her people face enough dangers from creatures more at home in Steven King’s fevered imagination and humans pushed to the breaking point. They should never feel unsafe within Atlantis. Never.

Inhaling through her nose, Elizabeth forces herself back on track. Once Rodney saw that, he wouldn’t continue his surprisingly subtle games of who-gets-to-piss-without-an-electrical-shock. He’d go right for the big guns.

Walking as fast as she can without running, Elizabeth heads for the gym.

There are actually quite a number of gyms set up throughout the inhabited parts of Atlantis. Some are meant for sparring, with gleaming wooden floors and mirrors to practice forms in. Some are more traditional gymnasiums, stuffed with a hodgepodge of Earth and Atlantean equipment. The Atlantean version of a treadmill is one of Elizabeth’s favorite ways to exercise, its sensors able to determine what kind of workout she wants without a tap of a button. There are several of each type of gym to accommodate scientists who don’t want to compete with marines and the odd schedules most of her people meet.

Two are the most distant, location-wise, their hallways often swirled with the Alterran version of dust—a pale green that doesn’t cling quite as firmly as the grayer version she’s used to—the equipment unused for weeks.

Steeling herself, she picks the one with free weights in it first. She hopes she’s wrong about this.

The door opens to a small crowd of people, all diligently working on their chosen piece of equipment. Lorne is skipping rope—something that makes Elizabeth blink and stare, startled. Cadman pumps weights, the dull-colored metal ‘arms’ bigger than her own head. Elizabeth tracks and catalogs every face until she realizes that this is almost the entire corp of Sheppard’s officers. The few who aren’t enlisted are some of his most trusted men—and more than a few women—the leaders for when Sheppard isn’t there.

They are the ones who do the things Sheppard, as Commanding Officer, can’t. And they’re very good at it.

None of them stop what they’re doing. Most don’t even glance her way, and those who do are studiously staring at the floor when she tries to meet their eyes.

It’s as obvious as a ten-page report. In crayon. With pictures.

“Where are they?” She’s proud of the steel in her voice.

“They, ma’am?” Cadman answers only after a short, silent struggle carried out in barely-there glances, spreading through the room like dominoes. She didn’t win the argument; she’s just the only one who thinks Elizabeth should know.

“Sheppard and McKay. Perhaps you know, Lieutenant Daniels?”

The woman in question doesn’t stop pulling her butterfly weights down, the muscles in her shoulders flexing under glistening sweat. The cord hisses with each pull. “I’m real sorry, ma’am, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Her response is interesting. Elizabeth had guessed that another woman would have some solidarity with her, but the very lack is so much more telling. Everyone here is part of a unified front that transcends rank and gender. There is absolutely no dissension.

That shouldn’t make her feel as good as it does.

“I’m not going to stop them.”

Silence.

“Please, I just want to—” Except she doesn’t know what she wants, not really. She wants to see, but the idea of watching just how far one of her people can go, even _with_ due cause, is something she’s not sure she can handle. She wants to know, but it’s better for her to remain ignorant.

The best thing for all of them would be for Elizabeth to turn around and go back to her office, to turn a blind eye to whatever happens to Privates Rowe and Gordy. She has to be able to deny knowledge of, or involvement in, whatever happens to protect the people who deserve it. She has to _trust_ her people.

And she does. But.

The steady _swish, swish, swish_ of the jump rope stills. “Cadman,” Lorne says. “Tell her.”

“Sir—”

Lorne looks right at Elizabeth. He’s covered in sweat, skin flushed and shiny with it. He looks young, almost absurdly so, skin unlined and glowing with vitality. The shifting blue-gray of his eyes is old, though, and understanding.

Elizabeth wonders what expression she wears.

“Tell her,” Lorne orders again and goes back to skipping rope.

Cadman’s directions are clipped and precise. It takes Elizabeth almost ten more minutes to wind her way through a labyrinth of hallways she’s never paid attention to on Atlantis’ blueprints, up two flights of stairs to a sun-filled hall that no transporter will ever come near. This is about as remote as you can go and still be within acceptable distance from the control tower. And Elizabeth’s certain that without Cadman’s information, the only way she’d find this particular hallway is through sheer, random accident.

A sickening thud confirms she’s in the right place, flesh slammed hard against flesh.

“Say that again,” Sheppard dares.

Elizabeth halts where she is. She’s heard Sheppard angry before—the man can be dangerous. _Extremely_ dangerous. She’s been fortunate that he prefers to be affable and a little lazy, and that his brief, intense periods of icy violence are usually aimed at their enemies, people who deserve that kind of attention.

She’s never heard him like this before.

“I’ll file a complaint,” Gordy slurs, the words wet with what has to be his own blood.

“Oh, look, the bargaining portion. I suggest finding a better method because this one is laughable.” There’s a soft rustle of clothing, and when Rodney speaks again, his voice is low and hard. He has a different kind of dangerous, but it’s absolutely no less deadly. “Any request you make will disappear even as you type with your broken, ham-fisted fingers. Don’t forget that _I_ do the final encryption before we send anything to Earth. If you think I’ll miss it, then you’re much, much stupider than I thought.”

“Doctor Weir—”

Another thud, then another. There’s a steady, rhythmic quality that tells her they’ve been doing this for a while. Muffled, swallowed grunts of pain sound stoic.

Elizabeth closes her eyes and calms herself. This is a performance she can’t afford to screw up.

Opening her eyes, she strides to the half-open door at the end of the hall and leans in. She doesn’t look at the two men on the ground. She doesn’t look at Sheppard, his back heaving with exertion, hands bloody and probably swollen.

She looks at Rodney, meeting his unsurprised gaze squarely. “Doctor Weir,” she says firmly, “sees no merit in any potential complaints, particularly given the counter-complaint that will instantly be filed, nullifying yours.” She nods a goodbye without actually looking at anything, back straight and proud. “Carry on, gentlemen.”

It’s one of the hardest things she’ll ever do. She _can’t_ condone something like this. It will undermine too much of her authority with the SGC, let alone the rest of the expedition when they find out.

If they find out.

Even if they don’t find out, _she_ knows, and a few days or weeks from now, when the righteous satisfaction of the most biblical and basic punishments possible fades, that memory will affect her judgment in another situation. She can't predict anything specific, but she can only assume the impact will be negative. 

She’s made too many compromises since coming to the Pegasus galaxy.

But she doesn’t regret her actions. Not at all.

* * *

Three weeks later, everyone knows something. For once, the rumors don’t telephone out into random, confusing obscurity and Elizabeth suspects a few spokespeople have been appointed to give short, pre-planned statements to small groups of people. 

The reaction is fairly muted. 

Elizabeth sets up several awareness seminars, stressing a variety of potential issues along with sexual harassment. They go over about as well as can be expected, although the seminar that Elizabeth thinks of as ‘Please, Please Don’t Impregnate The Natives’ is amusingly rowdy.

No one verbally connects the dots, not overtly and not, as far as Elizabeth’s—and later Teyla’s—carefully checking can determine, covertly either.

Elizabeth tries not to be surprised. She shouldn’t be, since she knows the caliber of her people: they’re a reflection of her and the rest of her staff, and the idea of something _this_ petty, and _this_ base is something most of them can’t even contemplate.

She does overhear one conversation that makes her laugh.

“Come on,” Cadman half-whines. She’s eating one of the cheese sticks she can’t seem to get enough of, squirreled away all over her person until the smell reminds her where she’s hid them. “You see how McKay acts. He’s a pig!”

Simpson shakes her head. “Of course he is. But he’s a pig to _everybody_. The only time he notices gender is when he’s choosing which insults to lob. I’m actually more surprised about, well.”

“Ha, I’m not,” Cadman says jauntily, but doesn’t start explaining until Elizabeth is carried by the crowd, too far away to hear their quiet whispers. She stares at their heads as she settles her tray and begins eating.

In retrospect, she’s not surprised either.

There are other small changes. Ito becomes a little more popular. Only a little.

There’s a sense of camaraderie between the scientists and the military that wasn’t there before. It’ll probably fade, Elizabeth thinks cynically, but the bonds that are established will be worth it. You can’t confide in people you don’t trust.

Heightmeyer tells her that Cadman and a few others have organized semi-regular meetings for the all female personnel. She hasn’t gone, and Elizabeth doesn’t ask about attending. It’s not necessary.

Courses are set up for the scientists so they all have at least a basic set of defensive skills. It won’t stop anyone trained or intent, but the mental satisfaction of knowing there’s even a chance to get away, something they can _do_ , is the greater benefit. Besides, as Sheppard admits to her ruefully, it’s something they should have done anyway. There are too many times when Atlantis herself is the battleground.

If there are any other ripples, Elizabeth can’t see them and doesn’t want to. As far as she’s concerned, the problem is absolutely handled. She’s not naive enough to think it won’t happen again. It will. Certain things are as regular as the oxygen mixture they need to breath, and this is, as much as Elizabeth hates it, one of them. It’ll happen.

But she’s got a lot of good people to help her mitigate it.

Smiling, Elizabeth electronically signs the infirmary request that Privates Rowe and Gordy be sent back to Earth for greater medical assistance than Atlantis can currently provide, given their frontier status.

Then she adds a private note, encrypted for General Landry only.


End file.
